jia shuixing

jia shuixing Poems

what can a creature do, if not -
among other creatures -
to love?
to love and to forget,
...

Old age (as others call it)
may be the time of our bliss.
The animal has died or almost died.
Man and his soul remain.
...

don't be afflicted by the flowing petal
it's also being, this way to cease to be

you'll still see roses, curled up in ashes
...

e processos simbolicos incompletos
(o verso livre e a revolucao industrial, o obvio e a meta-poesia -
falhas da visao espacial, rompendo o proprio ser que via)
repletos de modicos recessos contra a dor.
...

a menina de jogar saco
o muleque que tirava sarro
a tia da casa de barro
pagando pipoca emprestado
...

6.

to think that every single time you thoughts are slashed

with every stunted shattered night, every sighting of encompassing absurd
...

she was the one that taught me the supreme, life-saving skill:
when the storm rages -
and it rages all the time,
the world is always in collapse outside.
...

reading was safe when everything else was harm -
and the library is now on fire

so then!
...

you burn something and intone the names of everyone you've lost

you make light a bit
and the laughter is almost as unbearable as the pain
...

you build an altar, you find a quiet place
or maybe a place so noisy and intense and full of life and light that it can hold you in distraction, you'll need a while

you set out your best satins
...

The Best Poem Of jia shuixing

To Love

what can a creature do, if not -
among other creatures -
to love?
to love and to forget,
to love and to mislove,
to love, to unlove, to love?
always, and even with glazed eyes, to love?

what can, I ask, the loving being do,
alone, in universal rotation, if not -
to rotate as well, and to love?
to love what the sea drags to the beach,
and what it buries, and what, on the ocean breeze,
is salt, or need of love, or just want?

to love solemnly the palms in the desert,
whatever is let go of or adored in longing,
and love the inhospitable, the rough to the touch,
a vase without a flower, an iron floor,
and the still chest, and the dreamglanced street, and a bird of prey.

this our destiny: love countless,
spread throughout the petty and the null,
unlimited giving to complete ungratefulness,
and in the empty shell of love the fearful,
patient search for more and more love.

to love our lack of love itself, and in our dryness,
to love the implicit water,
and the tacit kiss,
and the endless thirst.

(translation of Amar by brazilian poet Carlos Drummond de Andrade)

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